George implored Ken to fly to save his precious life.
"What for? you fools! I don't see anything to run from," Ken shouted back. His temper had soured a little during the last few days.
"You'd better run, or you'll have to climb," replied George. "Wild pigs--a thousand of 'em!"
"Where?"
"Right under us. There! Oh, if they see you! Listen to this." He broke off a branch, trimmed it of leaves, and flung it down. Ken heard a low, trampling roar of many hard little feet, brushings in the thicket, and cracking of twigs. As close as he was, however, he could not see a moving object. The dead grass and brush were several feet high, up to his waist in spots, and, though he changed position several times, no javelin did he see.
"You want to look out. Say, man, these are wild pigs--boars, I tell you! They'll kill you!" bellowed George.
"Are you going to stay up there all night?" Ken asked, sarcastically.
"We'll stay till they go away."
"All right, I'll scare them away," Ken replied, and, suiting action to word, he worked the automatic as fast as it would shoot, aiming into the thicket under George.
Of all the foolish things a nettled hunter ever did that was the worst. A roar answered the echoes of the rifle, and the roar rose from every side of the trees the victims were in. Nervously Ken clamped a fresh clip of shells into the rifle. Clouds of dust arose, and strange little squeals and grunts seemed to come from every quarter. Then the grass and bushes were suddenly torn apart by swift gray forms with glittering eyes. They were everywhere.